


You Can't Get There From Here

by mixeduppainter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixeduppainter/pseuds/mixeduppainter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between seasons 5 and 6, Dean has moved in with Lisa and Ben but he's barely keeping it together. Actually, in between creeping paranoia and his frequent nightmares, he's pretty sure he's losing it. But when an angel shows up, Dean isn't sure if he should be pissed off or thankful that he's got one last hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story has a bit of swearing and is undoubtedly a little spoilery for seasons 5 and 6. I always wondered what went on with Dean for that entire year he was on his own so I wrote my own version. Hope you like it. More chapters to come.
> 
> Required disclaimer: Unfortunately I own nothing though if anyone ever cared to give me the rights to Supernatural I wouldn't turn it down.

Dean sat in the backyard, beer in hand, and listened to the birds chirp. He’d long ago finished raking up leaves, mowing the last patches of grass that had bothered to grow so late in the Fall. Lisa and Ben were still out. He couldn’t even remember where they’d gone. Had he been listening? Maybe not.  


He took a quick swig from the bottle before clasping it between both hands. He stared at the soft ground beneath his feet.  


It was peaceful here. Quiet. Fucking birds singing and squirrels playing hide and seek with the acorns falling from the oak trees. So why did he feel like he was drowning?  


He sighed again, finishing off his beer, and setting the empty bottle beside his boot. He’d get rid of it later.  


Dean wasn’t a praying man. Never had been. But every once in a while he caught himself in the middle of one, half formed pleas dying before they were quite uttered. This was one of those times.  


Maybe it was considered blasphemous to pray to one angel in particular and not God Himself. Then again, when had God ever bothered to answer his prayer? Never. That was when. Dean had always figured it was better not to ask than be ignored but sometimes he just couldn’t help it.  


At least he caught himself before he said a word aloud this time.  


_Cas..._   
_Can you hear me?_   


Dean cracked an eye and looked around in anticipation. But he was disappointed. Again.  


_I’m serious, Cas. I just wanna talk for a few minutes. Can’t take much more of this shit._   


He knew it was useless but he kept on silently praying, unable to stop the flow now that he’d started.  


_I haven’t been on a hunt in months, not since Sam... Because I promised. But I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Almost shot the neighbor’s poodle the other day. I mean, it was an accident, but the thing ran at me and I was drunk and that little yapper really should’ve been on a leash…_   


Dean ran a hand through his hair and surged to his feet, snagging his empty bottle from the ground as he went.  


“Screw this. Probably not listening anyway.”  


He trudged back into the house, depositing the bottle into the recycling bin so Lisa wouldn’t get on him about it later.  


As if on cue, a car pulled into the driveway and Dean found himself outside yet again, greeting Ben and Lisa as they climbed out of the car. He waved and put a smile on his face, playing the part. It was easier when they were around. He forgot to feel quite so alone. It was harder to imagine the screams in Hell when they were smiling at him, making him feel like a real person.  


For a moment, he was the man he pretended to be. Kind. Thoughtful. A hard worker. Caring father figure. He was the guy who bought his woman flowers for their anniversary and took his adopted son to school in the morning. He was normal. Average. Just like everyone else.  


For a moment, he could believe it was all true.  


For that moment, he wasn’t a hunter anymore.  


He just was.  


This time, Dean snapped out of the moment much too soon.  


Lisa saw the smile drop off his face. She stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. “Something wrong?” she asked in a low voice, casting a glance at Ben as she spoke.  


But Dean just laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to rub away the feeling that he was being watched. “Nah. Everything’s fine.”  


She looked less than convinced but let it slide, turning her attention back to Ben and the bags in her hands as they walked into the house together.

..........

Dean had taken to falling asleep on the couch.  


When asked, he blamed it on too much fresh air and not enough quality primetime programming.  


Things had been hectic at work. Just the way he liked it. Kept his mind busy. Kept it occupied. It also made him the kind of bone tired that kept him from slipping out of the house some night to look for trouble.  


He’d resisted the urge for months now.  


At first, he’d been too drunk, out of his mind with grief, to do much. It was a miracle he managed to hold it together long enough to drive to Lisa’s house. But when he stepped foot over the threshold his control had snapped. There wasn’t enough liquor in the world to help him forget. That’s when the praying had really started.  


Dean found himself on the floor one night, the house silent around him. Lisa and Ben must have gone to sleep but Dean couldn’t say for sure. The night was hot, sweltering despite the air conditioning. He could feel it down into his bones. And he’d known what he wanted to do.  


That night Dean had torn the house apart looking for his gun. He needed it. He wanted it. He had to see what it would feel like to press it against his head and pull the trigger. Dean wondered if that would earn him an all expenses paid trip to where Sam was.  


But he couldn’t find it.  


He couldn’t find any of it. Not a gun or a knife. Nothing. It was like he’d ceased to exist.  


Dean kept searching long after his energy gave out, head pounding, eyes blurred. He’d stumbled around the house, bouncing off of walls and furniture that he could barely see. He fell and dragged himself back to his feet. Over and over again he’d repeated it like some kind of horrible interpretive dance. The fifth time he fell, he stayed on the floor, rolling onto his back and imagining that the sky was over his head instead of a plain white ceiling. If he squinted just right maybe he would find himself sitting on the Impala with Sam beside him, staring at the stars. He called Sam’s name but he didn’t get an answer so he tried again. And again. His throat was hoarse before he heard footsteps.  


But it wasn’t Sam.  


Not tall enough.  


Through blurred eyes, Dean watched the approach of someone in a trailing coat and he almost smiled. “Cas!” he called. “I can’t find Sam. Help me find him, Cas.”  


Wrong again.  


Lisa dropped to the floor beside him, pulling his head into her lap and brushing away tears he hadn’t even known were there. When they were gone he could finally see her. Not Cas.  


She cooed to him, shushing him like she would a baby and Dean let her. He flexed his hands. If he’d wanted to he could have snapped her neck. Did she even realize? Did she know what his hands had done over the years? What they could still do?  


“I need help, Cas,” Dean moaned, words slurring as he closed his eyes. “Where are you? I need help. Please help me.”  


That was the first night he prayed but it wasn’t the last.  


It almost didn’t matter that he never received an answer.  


But months had given Dean time to consider. To regain his strength. It had given him time to learn how to pretend like he wasn’t dying a little more each day. He thought he had Ben fooled. Lisa was another story.  


Dean knew she saw the twitch of his hand when he was startled. She saw the way his shoulders still rode up as he checked for exits and weapons that he didn’t carry anymore. And she knew about the nightmares. Liquor did fuck all to stop them.  


So Dean did what he could. He stayed up past the point of exhaustion and passed out on the couch. It worked. To an extent.  


Unfortunately it wasn’t working tonight.  


Dean knew he was dreaming at the beginning but that didn’t matter. Dream. Reality. It was all the same when the lights went out.  


Sam was on the rack tonight, a long gash already carved out of his side. Like meat on a spit, ready to serve. Fresh meat. Dean wasn’t surprised to see the razor in his own hands. Somewhere Alistair was laughing at him. He was sure of it. Such potential. Squandered. And yet here he was again, night after night with blood on his hands.  


The second cut was easier than the first. He could almost enjoy Sam’s gasp of pain as he struggled. Blood trickled from Dean’s hands like water as he sliced deeper, carving his future out of his own brother’s flesh.  


“Dean.”  


He paused. Not a voice he’d been expecting. Not here.  


“Stop it, Dean.”  


“You wait your turn.” Dean bent lower over the rack, fingering the red edge of the blade in his hand, ignoring the presence behind him. It was everywhere. Behind. Above. In front. Like high beams in his eyes, it was distracting.  


Dean readied himself for the next cut. Sam moaned. Soon he would be choking on his own blood. This is where it would start to feel good. Dean was good at this. Alistair told him so.  


“Dean!” A firm hand fell on his shoulder.  


He sat up with a muffled cry. The sky was still dark outside. He stared into the blue glow of an infomercial on the TV screen. The sound was turned down, leaving the host to gesture in silence like a ghost hawking kitchen appliances.  


The dream was already fading, just not quickly enough. Dean dropped his head into shaking hands and wondered if it was too early to get ready for work.


	2. Chapter 2

“Son of a bitch!” Dean barked as he tripped. He’d nearly dropped the panel of the shed they were framing. On himself. Twice now. He glared down at his feet, searching for the guilty party. Something was definitely fucking with him. The three or four hours of sleep he’d been getting lately were the norm. It was fine.  


“Maybe you should lay off the Jack first thing in the morning,” Sid laughed beside him, clapping Dean on the back.  


Dean gave him a rueful smile. “What? Hey, I’m sober as a priest on Sunday.” Truth was he’d run out of booze. It was a damn tragedy. That was his next job after they were done building Sid’s new shed. Assuming they ever did. _Easy to assemble, my ass,_ he thought bitterly.  


They went back to work and Dean managed to stay upright and generally unscathed until they’d hammered the last nail into place.  


The sun was ungodly bright overhead. If Dean hadn’t known just how dry he was, he might have thought he was hungover with as hard as the sun was hitting him. But it wasn’t the sun. Just the dreams and the lack of sleep catching up with him. He rubbed a hand over his eyes trying to clear the fog from them.  


Sid had run into the house to get them each a beer for a job well done. Dean hadn’t been against the idea in the slightest. In fact, he was all for it. Maybe the problem was that he was _too_ sober. He hadn’t been this dry in weeks. Months even. It might have felt good, clean, if it wasn’t for the sun and the damn nagging feeling that something was sneaking up on him. The skin on the back of his neck crawled.  


He’d been fighting off the feeling all morning. It was either that or head for his garage and the stash of weapons he kept in the trunk of the Impala. Ready, willing, and able at a moment’s notice. He kept the keys in his pocket at all times. Hadn’t told Lisa. She might have thought he planned to bolt. But really, what was the point? Where could he run to? There wasn’t anywhere that he hadn’t already been. With Sam. They’d crisscrossed the entire country more times than he could count. There wasn’t an inch of it to be found that wouldn’t remind him of his brother, of the sacrifice he had made, and what the price had been. Too fucking high, that’s what the price had been.  


In his spare time, after Lisa went to sleep, Dean still pored over every book he had. Leather bound, beat up, ragged pages in languages that he could never understand, Dean had given them all his best shot. He’d stopped just short of seeking out a crossroads. Barely. But Sam had been the researcher. Not Dean. He’d done his damnedest. He’d tried. He’d really tried. He was _still_ trying. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch the sun set each day. It didn’t slow the change of seasons. They were reminders of how much further away from Sam he was getting. He wanted to do something. He needed to do something. But he was stuck spinning his wheels. Dean looked up. He was building sheds and drinking beer with neighbors. That’s what he was doing.  


His mouth screwed up in sudden distaste.  


Yeah, he’d promised. But Sam had to know he was lying when he did. There wasn’t a damn thing in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth that would keep him from saving Sam. Somehow.  


Dean looked around, wondering what was taking Sid so long.  


Then he noticed the shadow in the trees, next yard over.  


Dean was up before he even realized, ready to leap the fence and check it out, hand on his belt where his gun wasn’t. Dammit. He was armed with a hammer that had seen better days and the keys to his baby. In the suburbs. That wasn’t going to kill anything. Assuming there was anything to kill. Dean wavered between praying there was and hoping there wasn’t.  


Sid saved him the trouble of finding out.  


“We miss something?” Sid asked with a nod towards the hammer clenched in Dean’s fist.  


“Nah.” Dean gave it a flip, catching it neatly before putting it back down, but he kept his attention on that spot over the fence. He’d seen something. Hadn’t he? “Was wondering what was taking so long.”  


“Phone call from the mother-in-law.” Sid’s mouth twitched into a grimace. He held out one of the beers in his hand for Dean.  


They sat together for another hour talking. Afterwards Dean couldn’t remember a damn thing they’d said. He’d been too busy watching the trees next door.

..........

“I think I’m getting paranoid,” Dean said with a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down at the grass. He scuffed a foot through it, digging a toe into the packed soil beneath. The grass was rapidly browning. Definitely wouldn’t need mowing again until next year. He was a little disappointed. “Or going crazy. Where the hell are you, Cas?” He looked up at the sky, wondering if Cas was up there somewhere. Watching like a stalker? Or was he ignoring him? “Too busy for me, huh? Fine. Fuck you then. But it woulda been nice to talk to someone. You know. Someone who understands. Lisa tries. She does. But she doesn’t know. Not like you’n me.”  


He was most likely drunk. He’d forgotten where to draw that line a long time ago just like he’d forgotten how to keep count of the bottles he emptied on nights like this. He stretched in the chair, running his legs out over the grass and staring at this toes. His boots were so damn clean, not covered in dust and dirt and grime. No ashes left over from the latest salt and burn. No blood. Not a single damn smudge of ooze that he couldn’t explain in polite company. So this was normal life. He hadn’t cleaned a blood stain from his clothes since that time he punched the mirror.  


“My boots are so fucking clean,” he griped, tossing back the remains of the bottle in his hand and dropping it to the ground beside him. It hit the others with a clink and rolled away. “And some guy from work invited me to play golf. Fucking _golf_. What the hell, man? It’s all plaid pants and funny hats, right? I can’t play golf. I mean, look at me. You know how much shit I’ve killed? Nasty things. Evil things. Nasty, fuckin’ evil things,” he reiterated just in case Cas had missed it the first time. Wherever he was. “Can’t tell those stories on the golf course.”  


He kept on rambling half to himself and the rest to his imaginary friend the angel. The dick. Where was he?  


Dean had never told Lisa about the angel on his shoulder. Or any of the rest of it for that matter. He doubted even she would be able to believe what had happened that day. The day the Apocalypse wasn’t.  


“And Sam was right, dammit. It was a good plan. But why’d it have to be him? Why’s it always gotta be us? Haven’t we done enough? Given enough? Suffered enough? Isn’t it somebody else’s turn yet?”  


The stars overhead blurred into a jumble of light and dark. He had the urge to bellow at the sky, hope maybe God heard him. The douche. Not that he’d answer.  


But Dean didn’t do it.  


One of these days Lisa would get tired of him waking her up from a sound sleep. She would get tired of his constant drinking and the crazy look he got in his eyes. If she kicked him out he might really drink himself into the grave. Another grave. How many had it been so far? It would be better than being alone. He couldn’t be alone. Not yet.  


Dean felt around on the ground beside him, hoping there was another bottle that he hadn’t sucked dry. No such luck.  


As if to cement his rotten luck, it started to rain. It was only a light drizzle. Dean had been in worse. He’d fought in worse. But it was cold and uncomfortable and he was out of booze so he hoisted himself out of the chair and stumbled towards the back door, bobbing and weaving like a prize fighter. He just wished he could control it.  


He felt the change in the air more than heard it. The rain covered any noise with a hush anyway. Dean spun, startled to find an unfamiliar face staring back at him. For a moment, he had thought it was Castiel finally come to visit. But the face was all wrong. The eyes watching him were the wrong kind of blank. Wrong vessel, wrong angel inside it.  


“Dean Winchester.”  


The voice was not quite what Dean might have expected. It didn’t have any of the thunder he’d come to expect from the angels. In fact it was downright nasal. He half expected the guy to be sporting a pocket protector and tape on his glasses. Assuming he was wearing any, which he wasn’t. The suit, however, was pretty much standard issue angel though. They must all shop at the same store.  


Dean wasn’t sure if his name had been a question or an answer. Didn’t really matter which. He was drunk and out of practice but he still knew what came next.  


Dean dodged sideways as the angel reached for him. What he wouldn’t give for an angel sword right about now. Speaking of which.  


The blade glinted in the angel’s hand as if called forth by Dean’s thoughts. If that was the case, Dean was fine with it disappearing again. Anytime.  


“Raphael wishes to speak with you.” The angel paused to let that sink in.  


“Yeah, I can see that but I’m a little busy now. Is this about that holy oil thing ‘cause that was all Cas’s idea,” Dean said, backing away from the house.  


He racked his brain for anything he could use against the angel and came up with a long list of absolutely nothing. He’d kept an angel blade. He wasn’t a total idiot. Unfortunately it was stashed safe and sound in the Impala with all the other weapons he’d saved. They were locked up tight in case Ben or his friends started getting nosy. The odds of Dean getting to the sword in one piece were just depressing.  


Dean glanced from the house to the garage and back at the angel staring him down.  


Oh, what the hell.  


“I think you need to work on your stare,” Dean said, reaching around and grabbing the chair he’d just vacated. He swung it up into the angel with a grunt, going for a homerun. The dick didn’t even move as the chair broke apart. It rained down bits of plastic around him like confetti. Lisa wasn’t going to be happy about that one assuming Dean was still around in the morning to explain it.  


In the meantime, he took off towards the garage. The fact that he wasn’t thoroughly ventilated already gave him some hope that Raphael really did want him in one piece. Of course, he’d seen what angels could do when they were motivated. It was hard to forget the feeling of stage 4 stomach cancer. At least he hadn’t been the one to lose his lungs that time. Sam had had that pleasure. Vaguely, Dean wondered just how creative Raphael could be when he wanted something. Not that he was keen on finding out for certain.  


Dean slammed into the side garage door in a hurry and skidded to a halt. The angel was waiting for him beside the covered Impala as if he’d been there all along.  


“Are you finished?” the angel asked, arms slack at his sides.  


He reached out a hand and Dean was much too familiar with what came next. He ducked, bobbing out of the way and nearly landing on his ass. He hit the wall instead, narrowly missing the business end of a rake. That really shouldn’t be there.  


Those angel fingers hovered closer, ready to zap Dean to points unknown, better left unknown. Then a thin silver blade sprouted from his throat. The angel’s mouth formed an O of surprise and quickly filled with brilliant blue white light. Spotlight bright eyes glared at the roof of the garage and his scream had Dean clapping his hands over his ears. The angel’s body hit the floor in a heap a second later, wings painting the concrete with black ash.  


Dean looked up, sure that he had gone blind from the sudden surge of light. It had burned out his eyes. Had to be. Because he certainly wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.  


“Hello, Dean.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks for reading this far. I hope this chapter lives up to any expectations you may have. If not, I apologize most deeply and with much shame. I’m not gonna lie. This is a hard story to write since I’m trying to sandwich it in between season 5 and 6 without going AU. And I honestly can’t come up with enough clever things for Dean to say. I am a failure as a human being. Again, please forgive me. I’ll try to do better next time.  
> More coming soon.

The angel’s flare up made an insane amount of noise. Dean had almost forgotten how loud it could be but it was even worse at 1am in the suburbs. The residential street didn’t even have any nighttime traffic. Roused by the noise, lights came on in nearby houses, shining into the yard next door. They weren’t the only ones who’d heard. A second later, Lisa called for Dean, a note of concern in her voice.  


Castiel lowered his sword. The tip shone red with angel blood. In the darkness of the garage, his eyes looked hollow and black but he was otherwise unchanged after all these months. Even his damn tie was still crooked.  


Of course, now that the angel was standing right in front of him, Dean wasn’t quite sure where to begin. He thought maybe somewhere between punching him in the face (and breaking his hand for his trouble) and hugging the guy.  


Outside, Dean could hear Lisa poking around in the backyard. From the tone of her voice, she’d found the remains of the chair he’d been sitting in just a few minutes ago. It wouldn’t be long before she came peeking into the garage.  


“Don’t you go anywhere,” Dean said as he headed for the garage door, pointing a sharp finger at Castiel. He had to get Lisa back inside before she saw the downed angel. Regular monsters had been hard enough to explain. “We’re gonna have a little talk.”  


“Dean.” Castiel’s voice pulled him up short. “I will return. Later.”  


“Now, hold on a minute—”  


And just like that he was gone. Again. At least Cas took the other guy with him.  


Dean gritted his teeth. “Friggin’ angels.” He stomped out of the garage, banging the door shut behind him.  


Lisa stood in the yard, robe wrapped tight around her. The drizzle left spots on her shoulders and weighed her thick hair but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were the size of saucers.  


Dean put up his hands and pasted on a smile that he wasn’t even close to feeling. “Sorry. Sorry. I knocked some stuff over in the garage.”  


Lisa took in the pile of empty beer bottles in the grass before eyeing the broken chair. “What happened here?”  


Dean chuckled. “Had a little accident. I’ll get it. Be inside in a second.”  


She didn’t look entirely convinced. Dean didn’t blame her. He used to be a better liar.  


Lisa seemed about to say something but she stopped and shook her head. “Don’t be too long. Okay?” Real concern colored her face and, for a moment, Dean was overwhelmed with guilt. He didn’t deserve her patience. Not for the first time, he wished he could be the man she deserved. But that didn’t seem likely. Not right now. Maybe not ever.  


After Lisa disappeared back inside with another meaningful look, Dean made his way back to the garage. He threw back the tarp on the Impala, admiring the glossy black lines. He’d missed it. His new, suburban lifestyle truck just wasn’t the same. It didn’t roar. It didn’t carry memories in its glove compartment instead of maps. It was a truck. It drove. But it didn’t live. Then again, maybe that made it perfect for his new life.  


Dean popped the trunk, keeping a wary eye on the door just in case Lisa came out looking for him again. It didn’t take long to find what he needed. The angel sword always looked so fragile but it was a solid, comfortable weight in his hand. He slid it up the sleeve of his jacket and slammed the trunk of the Impala, dropping the tarp back into place.  


Dean had thought the angels all packed up and moved back home. That had been the only reasonable explanation after the Apocalypse fizzled. Otherwise why hadn’t Cas come to see him before? Months of silence. Then suddenly the bastard swept in to save Dean like he was some kind of damsel in distress before taking off again. Just like always. It was really pissing Dean off.

..........

Castiel’s promise of ‘later’ ended up meaning ‘a week.’  


It was the longest silence between them, at least on Dean’s end, since Sam had disappeared into the hole with Lucifer and Michael in tow. Dean hadn’t realized how much time he spent talking to the air, praying for Cas, until he wasn’t doing it anymore. It had become a ritual. A pointless ritual but a ritual all the same.  


But it was funny. Knowing that there might be something out there gunning for him made a tiny curl of anticipation grow in Dean’s stomach. He felt more alert. He drank less. Marginally. Suddenly he had a purpose, even if that purpose was only waiting and watching. The angel sword was a constant friend. He knew he was no match for angel speed in a fight but when had that ever stopped him? It certainly didn’t keep him for palming an extra knife. The last few months hadn’t been enough to make him forget how to draw a banishing sigil. And he’d be damned if anything would lay a finger on Lisa and Ben.  


After a few days even Lisa noticed the change and commented with a smile. “You seem… better.”  


Dean could only shrug and change the subject.  


He didn’t care much for lying, not to Lisa, but how could he explain the sudden transformation? _Yeah, some angels might be after me. But don’t worry. If they get close I’ll open a vein and blast ‘em back to Oz._ That would go over real well. He’d been adamant about not over sharing the gory details of the last few years. She knew the Cliff’s Notes version of the Apocalypse. We came. We saw. My brother jumped into Hell with Lucifer. Well, maybe she didn’t know quite that much. She didn’t know about all the angels and the demons and the bleeding and the dying that had gone into it. He’d never even told her about his own trip to Hell. How did you even bring that up over dinner? So Dean left it alone. He was good at that. She didn’t ask. He didn’t tell and Dean avoided any religious talk like the plague in the meantime. It was just lucky that Lisa wasn’t a churchgoer. No one wanted to hear his annotated version of the Bible. Plus, it would just seem like bragging if he ever mentioned the Winchester Gospel. And now he was getting party invitations from Raphael the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Dean just wished he knew how to prepare.  


He wondered about it for seven days, checking every ward and devil’s trap he’d managed to hide around the house just in case anything decided to show up. He hadn’t heard a peep since Cas disappeared. Not a single halo or yappy poodle disturbed him. After a few days, when the sun was shining cheerfully and Dean was scrambling eggs for Ben’s breakfast, it was hard to believe any of it had happened. He’d had so much to drink that night. Maybe he really was losing his marbles.  


Then, a full seven days later, Castiel’s reflection showed up on the TV that Dean was pretending to watch. He couldn’t help a dry chuckle.  


“So this is later, huh?” he said without turning around. He’d felt the sudden rush of wind like a particularly persistent draft. It feathered over his back leaving Cas in its wake.  


“I was unavoidably detained.”  


Dean nodded slowly with a little hum. “You plan on explaining what was up with your friend last week? I feel so special knowing Raphael wants to talk to me. Left me all tingly inside.”  


There was a pause so long Dean wondered if he’d missed another one of Castiel’s sudden departures. He tossed a look over the back of the couch. Cas was still there but his eyes were turned towards the stairs. For a fraction of a second, Dean was on high alert, expecting an incoming angel attack. Then he heard the sound of a sneeze. Ben was coming down with a cold. Been up half the night already, running through a box of Kleenex. This was definitely not a conversation for him to be walking into.  


“Outside.” Dean slid off the couch, turning off the TV as he went.  


Cas followed him out into the yard with barely a rustle of his trenchcoat to show he was still there.  


With the door closed behind them, Dean turned on Cas, finally taking in the haggard look of him. It was something around the eyes. His thousands of years were showing even if the rest of him looked exactly the way it had when they’d first met. If you could call it that. Stabbing a guy in the chest was a hell of a greeting. “You look like shit, Cas,” he said with a smirk.  


“I could say the same of you, Dean.”  


The voice was the same gravelly dry monotone he remembered but Dean couldn’t help the feeling that Cas’s attention was situated somewhere around his waistline. Dean crossed his arms. “I haven’t been getting as much exercise since I quit hunting,” he said defensively. “Why are you here?”  


Castiel sighed. “I wanted to apologize. You should not have tried to contact me.”  


“Thanks. It’s good to see you too, man.” He clapped Cas roughly on the shoulder, seriously considering breaking a hand just for the chance to punch Cas in the face. What the hell kind of apology was that?  


“You misunderstand.” Cas looked at the ground and back up again, his blue eyes dark and weary. “I never removed the Enochian sigil from your ribs. You were to stay hidden from the angels. And from me. But your prayers were overheard.”  


Okay, that was a new one.  


“Hold on, hold on.” Dean put up a hand when Cas looked like he might say more. “You’re saying Raphael tapped my Soul Phone? Un-friggin-believable.”  
Dean swore under his breath.  


“I didn’t know you guys could do that. Listen in on other angel’s calls.”  


“Yes.”  


Suddenly Dean was glad for the dark. Maybe it would hide some of the redness coloring his face. “Well, that’s just great but what’s the point? Why is Raphael looking for me now? He’s a little late, don’t ya think? The Apocalypse is over. Michael and Lucifer are locked up. Team Free Will won. End of story.” He paused. “He’s not actually still pissed about that holy oil thing is he?”  


Cas sighed again as if Dean was a particularly dense child. “The war is over but it can be restarted.”  


Dean froze for a long moment waiting for the punch line. “I thought Lilith and the Seals were a one time deal. Without Lilith to unlock it, the Cage doesn’t open, right? No Lucifer, no Apocalypse.” He had a feeling he didn’t want to know the answer.  


“Dean.” Castiel’s face was hard. “Where are the Horsemen’s rings? Did you keep them?”  


The bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. “Why?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does a lot of nodding to season 4 so I hope you all remember your history. If things are confusing, leave me a comment or something, and I’ll do more recapping next time so no one is getting left behind. We wouldn’t want that. More chapters coming soon.  
> Thanks again for reading!

“Where are the rings, Dean?” Cas’s gaze swept Dean from head to foot as if he expected them to be stashed in a pocket or on a chain around his neck.  


“What are you gonna do with ‘em?” Dean asked, earning himself a hard stare.  


“Raphael cannot be allowed to collect all four rings.”  


“What is this? Some kind of Cracker Jack prize?” Dean snapped. “They’re not here, all right? I got rid of ‘em. Don’t worry. Raphael won’t find them.”  


Castiel’s eyes drifted away as if he wasn’t listening. After a few moments, his gaze locked on the garage at the side of the house. His meaning was clear.  


“The Impala’s one of the safest places I know,” Dean said, feeling the sting of an unspoken reprimand in Castiel’s blue eyes when they turned on him. “Your angel buddy didn’t even know it was there or he would have tried to take it.”  


“He did not have time to search,” Cas said in a dark voice. “Now where are the other rings, Dean? I must secure them. Quickly.”  


Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a rough hand. “I’ll get ‘em.”  


“Dean.”  


“Non-negotiable, Cas. You can come if you want but this is my job.”  


Cas transferred his gaze to the sleeping house.  


“She’ll understand.” Dean hoped that he was right. “But after this, I’m done. I promised Sammy,” he said, heart squeezing a little. He hadn’t said Sam’s name in months. At least not while he was awake and sober. It made the hollow place in his chest seem that much emptier.  


“Are you sure?” Cas cocked his head.  


Dean dropped his eyes. Cas’s look couldn’t have been any clearer if he’d accused Dean outright. Then again, it was hard to lie to an angel at the best of times.  


“How long have you known?” Dean asked.  


He wandered out into the open yard, hands in his pockets, and looked up at the stars. Autumn had taken hold of the breeze, turning it crisp and cool. No clouds streaked the sky. It would be cooler tomorrow. No doubt about it.  


“It’s dangerous, what you’ve been doing. The Cage must remain closed.”  


“Look, it didn’t work anyway,” Dean snapped, turning on the angel again. “But come _on_ , Cas. Sam doesn’t deserve to be left in there. Adam either. Michael and Lucifer can rot for all I care, but _they_ don’t deserve it.” His face grew red and he clamped his lips shut before he could say more. He looked around the yard, regretting breaking the chair over that angel. He needed something to do. Something to throw. Something. Anything.  


“I know.”  


“Then why didn’t you help me?!” Dean crossed the space between them and dragged Cas forward by his coat, fists wrapped so tight in the material that it hurt. He shook the both of them with each word and it only made him angrier that Cas let him. “I called you. I called you so many damn times. If you knew, why didn’t you help? Why didn’t you stop me?”  


Cas watched him with eyes that saw too much. Finally in a surprisingly small voice, he said, “I couldn’t.”  


Dean let go, uncurling his fists from Cas’s rumpled coat. He took one step back. Then another. Anger still burned hot in his lungs but something in Cas’s eyes made him pause. He’d never looked so tired before. Dean thought he understood that look, maybe a little too well.  


“Hey, Cas.”  


When the angel looked up, Dean smiled. “You want a beer?”

..........

“I’m gonna be gone a few days,” Dean said by way of greeting when Lisa woke up the next morning.  


Lisa paused at his words, pressing her lips together before meeting his eyes again. “Are you planning on coming back?”  


Dean had expected the question. He’d expected the cautious look that crept into her face as if he were a ticking time bomb set to explode. He’d prepared for it all but it still took a moment to force the words from his lips and yet another moment to get the tone just right. “Yeah. Of course.” It wasn’t a lie, he reminded himself. He was planning to come back. It was just… when had his plans ever gone right? But he would give it a damn good try. “Just a little cabin fever,” he said with a thin smile. “I haven’t stayed anywhere more than a few weeks. Not in a long time.” He swallowed the rising guilt. Some things she was just better off not knowing. “Thought I might drive up and visit Bobby for a day or two. Last time I talked to him, he said he had something for me.” Dean put a hand over hers. He liked the look of their hands, fingers overlapping on the counter. “Impala’s staying here,” he offered her with a crooked grin, the most genuine one yet.  


“Are you sure?” Her look was somewhere between amused and incredulous.  


“Yeah. I am.”

..........

If he was being perfectly honest, Dean felt odd driving out of town in the truck. The cream colored paint reflected the sun like snow until he was nearly glare blind. Everything about this trip was strange and slightly wrong to him. The seats, the feel of the engine. It didn’t have the mileage. It was like releasing a goldfish into the ocean. But he’d made a promise to himself. He’d made a promise to Sam. And he’d promised Lisa. He was going back. So the Impala stayed behind, an anchor for his wandering ship.  


He’d liberated War’s ring from the trunk of the Impala before he left, stashing it deep in his pocket. It was the safest place he could think of under the circumstances. The magical lockbox that was the Impala’s trunk would have been better but, failing that, he made do with a thin layer of denim between the ring and whatever was after it. He didn’t much care for it either. He could feel the barely disguised chill against his leg. It crept over him the moment he’d pulled the ring from its hiding place, like a tiny shiver of the thing itself. He could hardly call War ‘a man.’  


Dean’s first stop was only a couple hours drive but he was white knuckling it down the highway before he made it out of Indiana. The Illinois border was like some unreachable gate, the pathway to a different life. When he passed the big sign saying Illinois welcomed him, Dean paused. He was really doing this.  


He tried to deny that that was excitement bubbling in his chest but apparently he couldn’t even fool himself anymore. It was a betrayal just as much as all his scheming and research had been. If he’d thought of using the rings first, would he have been able to stop himself? He could only wonder.  


“Hello, Dean.”  


Cas’s voice threw a bucket of cold water on his treacherous daydreams and Dean jumped, swerving onto the gravel shoulder.  


“I thought you couldn’t find me unless I called.”  


Cas shot him a sideways look. “I observed your departure to make sure you were not followed by any of the others.”  


“Well, that’s a nice, comforting thought.”  


Cas ignored him, sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap as if he had all day. His eyes drifted around the cab of the truck. “You didn’t take the Impala.”  


“I left it with Lisa.” Dean felt his blood pressure ratcheting up by degrees under Cas’s scrutiny.  


Outside the windows, drying brown grass and spindly trees rushed by, all of it nearly identical. He could have been just about anywhere. It was almost like old times, road stretched out ahead of him, hands on the wheel, and a passenger beside him. But it should have been Sammy riding shotgun. And it should have been the Impala. Cas in the backseat. Dean tightened his death grip on the wheel, trying hard to focus on the highway ahead of him instead of what lay behind. _Here there be monsters,_ he mused with a frown.  


“How’s Heaven? Any sign of Raphael?”  


“Yes.” The syllable came out a hiss. He didn’t need to say more.  


“That bad, huh?”  


They drove in silence for a long time, mostly comfortable except for the gradually increasing itch in Dean’s skin. They were closing in on Stop #1 of the Horsemen’s Ring Reunion Tour.  


As if sensing it, Cas turned his face to the window. “This is…”  


“Yep.” Dean eased off the gas, trying to play it cool. “We’re close to Jimmy’s hometown. Maybe we should stop in and say hi,” he added sardonically. No doubt the Novaks would love to see the two of them again. They’d all had a grand time almost getting killed. Not to mention the whole borrowing Jimmy’s body thing.  


“They are no longer there,” Cas said and for a moment his voice was strange, colored by something all together human. The sudden show of emotion startled Dean a little.  


He raised an eyebrow but let it slide. He had no idea how to comfort an angel, assuming his efforts would even have been welcome. Instead he guided the truck onto the turnoff in silence, casting frequent glances Cas’s way. The angel had gone back to his usual unreadable stare. It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all.  


The autumn sun was already creeping towards the horizon when Dean found the spot he was looking for, about half an hour past an abandoned gas station. As they passed, he noticed with amusement that the windows were still blown out. No one had even bothered to board them up. If Cas noticed, he didn’t give any indication. Sometimes, Dean thought the guy really did look like a life sized Ken doll folded into the seat beside him.  


The truck slid to a stop on the side of the road. It wasn’t exactly made for offroading. Time to walk.  


Dean dug behind the seat, pulling the angel sword from his duffel. He checked his gun. Funny how easy it all came back. He hadn’t carried the thing in weeks. Now it felt like a missing arm.  


“Field trip time,” Dean said, holding up a shovel.  


Before he could utter another word, Cas was gone, reappearing behind Dean in the tall grass. He looked around. “You hid them in your grave?”  


“Call me sentimental.” Dean walked past him, slinging the shovel over his shoulder so it wouldn’t drag.  


He made short work of the grave, trying to ignore the ring of downed trees crumbling around him. It had been a different world when he climbed out of the black earth here. Seemed like a lifetime ago. Or more. By the time he’d exposed the tin, he was sweating despite the chill in the air. He crouched beside the hole, dropping the shovel in the overgrown grass. When his hand brushed over the cool, mud crusted metal of the box, he flinched. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel his hands clawing through the loosely packed soil, the claustrophobic wooden box he’d woken in. The white hot panic. Dirt and splinters beneath his nails as he fought his way vertical. He remembered it all more clearly than he would like. Sometimes he didn’t even need to close his eyes.  


What would Sam see when he woke up? There had never even been a body to bury and set a grave marker over. When he got back, what would he see? Would he have to claw out of Hell on his own?  


Dean snatched up the box and tossed it to Cas without looking up. The angel caught it, flipping open the lid.  


“Where are the other rings, Dean?” He stared into the box as if it were poison.  


“We need to make a couple more stops.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance if anyone was waiting on this chapter. X( I'm a bad updater. I'm sorry. I'll be quicker next time.

“Dean, we should not be here.” Cas eyed the crowded bar warily as if he expected a pack of demons to descend at any moment. Or, knowing him, it would probably be angels that did the descending. Dean couldn’t say he was completely at ease either, had chosen a spot in the corner just in case.  
  
“Relax, Cas. I just wanted to get a drink. If you’re a good boy, I’ll tell you where the next ring is.” Dean drained his beer and set it back down, twisting the empty bottle like a top. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to get you laid this time.”  
  
“You’ll be unable to retrieve the last of the Horsemen’s rings if you succumb to alcohol poisoning first.”  
  
Dean shot him a startled frown. For once, a quick retort wouldn’t come.  
  
In the silence, Castiel’s gaze swept the room again. “Someone could recognize this body.”  
  
Dean glanced around, eyes following the same trail. Nothing particularly ominous to put him on his guard. Just dark anonymity with neon liquor signs for decoration. “Nah. Doesn’t seem like Jimmy’s kinda place.”  
  
His assurances did little to comfort Castiel who sat, stiff and uncomfortable, with his own beer untouched before him.  
  
“Anyway we’ll be gone soon.” Dean leaned back in his chair. Unspent adrenaline pumped through his system like fire. “I should hate this, right? Getting dragged back into the life. Should’ve told you I was out. I promised Sam. I’m supposed to be done. Sitting at home watching sitcoms with my feet up on the coffee table. Playing golf on Sundays. I was trying, Cas. I was trying really hard. But I don’t know if I can do it. I think about Sammy. All the time.” He shook his head. “And I’ve been making Lisa’s life miserable for a while now. Absolutely fucking miserable. I used to help people, man. Me and Sam. We saved people. Now I’m…” He pinched his nose and grabbed up his beer. He’d forgotten it was already empty. “I don’t even know what I am anymore. What am I, Cas?”  
  
He didn’t actually expect an answer.  
  
“You’re human.”  
  
Dean snorted. “Pretty sorry excuse for one. I think… I may be drunk.”  
  
“I believe that is a safe assumption.”

  


Dean staggered back to his motel room alone. Cas had disappeared to retrieve Death’s ring. He’d seemed unsurprised when Dean finally admitted he’d given it to Bobby. “It was the only safe place I could think of,” Dean had grumped. “You got a better idea?”  
  
The night was dark, still, with only the sound of the occasional passing car to disturb it and suddenly Dean couldn’t remember where he was. He pulled out his phone, hit the speed dial, and listened to it ring. By the third ring, he knew there wouldn’t be an answer so he waited for the beep and tried to keep the slur out of his voice. “It’s me,” he said, pausing as if Lisa would answer. “I’m fine. Just… checking in. How’s Ben?” He sighed. Leaving messages always made him feel like an idiot. “I’ll be home soon. Okay?” He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.  
  
He’d told Cas that he was done after this trip. He’d told Lisa. And Dean would keep on saying it until he really believed it was true. But this trip, short as it had been so far, was making it hard to stay firm. It was making it damn hard to keep that promise. The open road. The adrenaline pumping his heart just a little bit faster. He felt alive. Probably the first time in months that he had. It was a slap in the face to Lisa and everything she’d done for him. All her patience. Her understanding. It couldn’t make him feel the way an open road and a hunt on the horizon did. Maybe it was the recklessness talking but it was pointless trying to deny it. And it would be worse than a lie to pretend that he didn’t still miss Sam every moment of the day. Hell, he missed Lisa too. And Ben. He missed the semblance of a life he’d built with them. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the real him. It couldn’t ever _be_ the real him. He’d spent decades on the road, hunting, killing, with death his very best friend right after Sammy. He’d longed for something else. For a family. But now that he had one he didn’t know what to do with it. He could almost hear Sam’s voice telling him _Give it time. It’ll get better._ But Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to give it time. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him.  
  
But he had to try anyway.  
  
His head thumped like a kettle drum. His feet dragged, heavy as lead on the end of his legs. Maybe he had drunk too much. Luckily, the motel wasn’t too far up ahead, nestled in between an empty lot and the highway. Just like home.  
  
Dean was momentarily surprised when the Impala wasn’t in the parking lot. Then his eyes fell on the massive creamy side of his truck and he relaxed. For a moment, he’d forgotten but the moment was over now.  
  
Dean fished his room key out of his pocket, double checking room numbers as he passed. It took incredible concentration to slide the key into the lock and give it a turn when he could barely see through the pounding in his head. He managed to find the bed in the dark before he passed out, face down, in the brown and orange comforter.

  


Too bright sun washed everything in shades of grey and brown. Not that the place had been all that colorful to begin with.  
The cemetery looked exactly as Dean expected, just as he remembered. Wilted brown grass tufted around his feet. He passed under the crooked gateway, little more than an arch in the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t in any hurry. The letters shadowed the ground ahead of him, writing themselves out in weeds and patches of dirt. _Stull Cemetery._ He might as well set up a Home Sweet Home cross stitch sampler somewhere. He spent too much time in the damn place.  
  
Everything was silent, almost quieting the echoes in his head. Sam’s voice. Soft. Insistent. Telling him to leave it alone and let him go. But when had Dean ever listened to Sam anyway?  
  
He fell to his knees in the dry grass and started to dig, fingers jabbing into the hard packed dirt. It had to be here. This was where it should be. He dug down to his elbows. Dirt landed in clumps around him, grass sticking in it like matted hair. The earth was cold the deeper he dug. His fingers went numb but he kept digging until he touched something smooth. He brushed his hands over the rough wood of the box and tugged. The lid came away with a thin squeal. He reached inside but the ring wasn’t there. Not the ring. Something else. He fell back. It was bones. He knew without anyone saying that they were Sam’s. Sam’s bones. Dried blood dusted Dean’s fingertips turning them an ugly brown.  
  
“No.” His face grew hot.  
  
“Your brother isn’t here.” The baritone rumbled startled Dean, the sound familiar even though he’d only heard it once before. Raphael’s shadow stretched over the grass, long and thin and looking just like another tombstone.  
  
Dean turned on his haunches to face the angel.  
  
Raphael wore the same dark suit he’d seen on so many other angels, his hands folded behind his back. His eyes were large and hard as he examined Dean.  
  
“You can’t be here,” Dean said.  
  
“That is where you are wrong.” Raphael didn’t move but Dean had the feeling he was closing in, surrounding him in a way that was entirely threatening. “I know what it is that you want, Dean. And I could give it to you.” He smirked. “If you give me the rings.”  
  
“No.” Dean’s hand closed reflexively over his pocket and the rings chilling him from the outside in.  
  
Raphael didn’t miss the movement. “I’ll find you one way or another. Wouldn’t you rather it was as a friend?”  
  
Dean almost laughed then. Raphael’s eyes were dark as the Pit itself, devoid of any humor. It was funny how different they were from Castiel’s. They were both angels. But that was where the similarities ended.  
  
“I have enough friends,” Dean said, standing and taking a step around the hole he’d dug. He spared a quick glance for it, marveling at how deep he’d gone, surprised at the size of what he’d done. It seemed to go on forever. And that was when he knew. _A dream._ He was dreaming. Raphael hadn’t found him, not really. It was almost comforting.  
  
“Do not test me,” Raphael said, voice stern. He looked around. “Or perhaps you would like to remain here while you make up your mind. Should I remind you of what Hell is like?” As he spoke, the sky darkened.  
  
 _Looks like a storm is coming,_ was Dean’s first thought. Then he heard the dogs.  
  
He froze at the sound of distant growling. It echoed through the misty air, wrapping him in the snarls of approaching Hellhounds.  
  
“Run, Dean.” Raphael smiled at him, the smile of a shark scenting blood.  
  
 _It’s just a dream. A dream,_ Dean screamed at himself but it wasn’t enough to keep his legs from running away with him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve often thought (no offense to Kripke and co.) that Dean’s trip to Hell was a bit of a lost opportunity. There are so many versions of Hell that it’s hard to choose just one. And why do you have to? Why can’t they all just live together in tormented harmony?  
> Anyway, this chapter was a lot harder to write than I’d expected. The first try crashed and burned so I put off rewriting it for a few days. Then yesterday I was feeling especially aggravated and voila! Instant Hell dream. At least being in a bad mood was good for something. I flatter myself that it came out pretty well. Feel free to review and agree with me. Or disagree. I guess that works too.
> 
> The following program contains content that may be unsuitable for children under the age of 14.  
> Viewer discretion is advised.  
> Or something like that… I can’t remember exactly how the TV warning goes anymore.

Dean ran. Instinct and fear pumped his legs faster than he’d thought possible. He leapt over rocks and dodged tombstones in rows that never seemed to end, hoping he was going the right way but not daring to stop and check.  


It’s a dream. It’s a dream. He reminded himself in a frantic hiss but it didn’t stop the thundering of his heart. It might be a dream but it felt pretty damn real.  
They were gaining on him.  


He could almost feel the rancid breath of the Hellhounds at his heels, huffing and snorting like thoroughbreds. His muscles screamed with the effort of his pace. His lungs burned. But he kept his eyes forward, mapping out the path ahead. He’d be damned if he was going to fall on his face like some damn horror movie victim and let them tear him to shreds.  


The pencil thin trees opened before him, offering precious little cover but it was enough. More obstacles. He tripped on an exposed root, slammed into a clump of birch saplings. They snapped against his shoulder like whips, shaking in an aggravated hiss. He recovered fast, kept going, weaving in between trees, watching the ground, checking for rocks and roots half hidden beneath the dry, fallen leaves.  


Something caught his calf, searing hot straight through the muscle. Claws. Or teeth. He couldn’t be sure which. Limping, Dean threw himself forward a little faster. His injured leg dragged in the leaves, making so much noise he thought he might go deaf. He ran, sweat pouring down his face. But the sound of growling just kept getting louder. Pain shot through his leg with every step. Then he was on the ground. He didn’t even feel the fall. Couldn’t tell what had tripped him. Hot breath billowed over him in waves but he had to keep moving.  


Not happening. Not happening. Not real. Dean just wished that he could believe it.  


With stiff fingers, he dragged himself over the soft earth and the thin, weedy plants. Claws raked his shoulder and blood bubbled up hot and terrifying. Dean wrenched himself forward, trying to get away even as he was torn apart. Teeth razored through his thigh and he jerked, rolling to his back, chest exposed in open invitation. He raised his arms as the hounds lunged at him again. His skin split. Bones snapped. He couldn’t breathe. Claws shredded his flesh like paper. Crumpled and bleeding, gurgling and gasping on his own blood and breath. His ribs crunched between shadowy teeth. He might have screamed if there’d been enough of him left to do it. As it was, he merely shuddered, twitching helplessly, throat torn open. He was little more than a pile of pieces that had once been a man. Unrecognizable. His eyes closed, unable to hold themselves open, leaving him with only the pain and the twilight dark beneath his lids for company. And pain. So much pain. Coppery blood pooled in the back of his throat. Slowly darkness filled over him like dirt on a grave, pressing down, covering him, hiding him from the pain. He welcomed it. Welcomed the diversion. Then so suddenly it left him dazed and empty, it was gone. He was whole. He knew it without opening his eyes. The slippery wet heat of his own juices had dried leaving him sweat damp but whole.  


Dean patted a hand over his chest, checking for gaps, tooth marks, jagged claw wounds. There was nothing but soft cotton and the rise and fall of his lungs beneath his fingers. Lungs still safely hidden behind flesh and bone.  


He was afraid to open his eyes. Afraid of what might be waiting for him there when he did.  


It’s just a dream, he reminded himself again but it didn’t change the razor edge memory of pain. It could still hurt and he could still bleed. He might as well be back in Hell.  


“Gotta wake up. Gotta wake up.” Dean repeated the mantra under his breath like a prayer, ticking off beads on a mental rosary, hoping.  


Snapping fingers wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t wake him. He knew that much without trying. If Raphael wanted to keep him here, he would do it. But there had to be another way. Had to be. Someone would come looking for him. Someone would wake him up. Except there was no one. He was alone. That hurt almost as much as the tearing claws and ripping teeth but it was different. Deeper.  


Dean opened his eyes. The ceiling was painted a cracked and peeling white. He stared at it, trying to place the room in the dark. He studied the ceiling and listened for the sound of dogs.  


What he heard was the gentle tinkling of wind chimes.  


He knew where he was.  


Dean was up out of bed in an instant, covers tossed aside. He knew this place. He would always know it, even so many years later.  


Home.  


He was home.  


He threw open the bedroom door, already pounding down the hall towards his parent’s bedroom. He knew it was wrong before he made it five steps.  


Too late.  


Too late.  


He heard the noise, the yelling, and knew it was too late. Acrid black smoke wafted down the hall as his father shouted out “No!” Sam’s nursery filled with blazing orange fire. Dean barely caught a glimpse of his mother and her wide eyed face before Sam was in his arms, put there by his father, and he was pushed towards the stairs. Sam seemed so innocent, so small, in Dean’s oversized arms. He held him gingerly, afraid of crushing him.  


And he ran.  


He would know the way even blind.  


He ran out the front door and onto the cool grass outside.  


But it wasn’t dark like it should be. It was bright and grey and he was back in the cemetery again with Sam clutched to his chest. Dean dropped to the ground and looked at the bundle in his arms. The blankets had collapsed around his brother. He peeled them back with shaking fingers.  


Dead.  


Shriveled and wrinkled and black eyed, Sam stared up at him. Dean was torn for a moment between holding the thing that had been his brother tight against him and dropping it in horror. Leathery skin and gaping lips. A corpse. Not his brother. Not Sam. Not Sam. It wasn’t Sam.  


Sam wasn’t dead.  


“You’re correct. Sam isn’t dead,” said Raphael, looking with mild curiosity over Dean’s shoulder. “Haven’t you heard that nothing ever really dies?” His smile was no less predatory than before. His bright white teeth flashed. “There are worse things than death.”  


There were no hounds this time and Dean’s arms were suddenly empty.  


“Should I show you?”  


Dean recognized the smell creeping up on him. “No.”  


“We could skip this part if you surrender the rings to me.”  


Dean shook his head, too sick to say the word.  


The stench curled around him like a fist. Blood. Sweat. Roasting meat. The sharp tang of fear. It mixed, heady and disgusting and irresistible, in his lungs. His hands twitched, whether from terror or anticipation he was unsure. He fisted them at his sides, so tight that it hurt.  


“No.” The word came out a thin gasp.  


“You’ve dreamed about this before, haven’t you?”  


Dean shook his head, eyes closed, trying to block out the screaming around him.  


“They’re waiting for you.”  


The razor was in Dean’s hand as if it had never left, as if it were shaped just for him.  


“No.” He opened his eyes. Blood stained his hands a deep red. It was already caked beneath his nails, filling the creases of his knuckles.  


Sam groaned, a wordless, feral noise, struggling on the rack. His eyes rolled wildly. He didn’t even seem to see Dean at first. He didn’t see anything.  


Dean’s hands moved on their own, hovering over the jagged cuts on Sam’s chest, thin strips peeled away like wallpaper. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t mean to do it.” But he had. He knew that he had. The blood was all over his hands. He wanted to let go, drop the blade to the ground, and run but he couldn’t. If he did that it would be him on the rack. It would be his tongue cut out at the root. His blood running free. His teeth biting through his lip as he tried not to scream. He would feel be peeled apart like overripe fruit and he couldn’t bear to do that again. He couldn’t. So he steadied his hand and closed his eyes, grinning as if he meant it.  


“It’s okay, Sammy. I’ll take care of you. I’m good at this,” Dean said in a hoarse whisper. “Alastair told me so.”  


He took his time paring away the flesh of Sam’s forearm, exposing bone and veins and the red, red meat beneath. The blade grew hot in his hands, eager, and he didn’t hesitate again. Every tongueless grunt and whine of Sam’s only made it better. Made him want to cut shallower so it could last even longer.  


It was good.  


Dean looked down at his hands and recognized them for what they were. Weapons. These hands weren’t for holding and comforting. They were for snapping bones. They were for flaying. They were meant to be covered in blood, washed in pain.  


They were weapons.  


And if he’d said ‘yes’ to Michael none of this would have happened to Sam. It was Dean’s fault. If he’d said it sooner, Sam would have been spared.  


And then hallelujah! Peace on Earth!  


Dean gasped as he sliced his finger with a slip of the blade. But it was okay. It didn’t hurt. Not nearly so much as it did when he cracked open Sam’s ribs and watched his brother’s still beating heart. It was okay. Dean carved deeper, relishing the pain that washed over him, the way he went weak in the knees as the blood blossomed on pale skin.  


He could do this forever.  


He would do this forever.  


And ever.  


Amen.  


Sam’s eyes found his and Dean smiled, ready to make the last cut, his masterpiece. He would split Sam wide open and watch everything fall apart around him. But Sam smiled back with bloody teeth and Dean froze. The screaming faded to a whisper around him.  


“No more, Dean.” Castiel wrapped Dean’s fingers with his own, loosening his grip on the razor. “It’s a dream.”  


“I know,” Dean said in a broken voice. The blade hit the ground with a clatter. His face ran with tears but he couldn’t remember when they’d started.  


“Castiel!” Raphael voice rolled over them like thunder, splitting the sudden silence.  


“It’s time to wake up.” Castiel’s eyes seemed so blue. Like the sky when Dean was a child.  


Dean nodded.

*******

He didn’t sit up with a start and a quick gasping breath like in the movies. Instead, Dean woke with a whimper, lying still and hoping the world would leave him alone awhile longer. Or forever. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to press back the memories.  


“It’s not your fault.” Castiel’s voice was hushed but Dean jumped anyway. He opened his eyes.  


Cas stood over him, in shadow. If it had been anyone else, Dean would have felt the threat in the stance immediately. But with Cas it was almost soothing. He was being watched over not menaced.  


“Yeah. Of course it isn’t.” Dean sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks for saving me, man.”  


Cas studied him for a long moment. Maybe it was the quiet patience, the understanding, or maybe it was something else entirely, but something deep inside Dean relaxed under that quiet blue gaze. “You’re welcome, Dean.” Then Cas’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Again.”  


Dean was tempted to laugh but the feel of blood on his hands was still too strong. So he settled for a smirk and looked at the dingy carpet of his motel room.  


He was back. Same brown and orange bedspread beneath him. Ugly abstract floral wallpaper on the walls not quite hidden by the dark. All of it comforting in its familiarity. All motel rooms felt the same.  


His eyes dropped to his hands. To anyone else they would look clean. He scrubbed them roughly on his jeans.  


“I should have known Raphael would attempt to locate you. I’m sorry.”  


Dean glanced up. “It’s okay. Really.” But he knew it was useless trying to hide the shaking in his hands.  


“I knew about your nightmares, Dean. For a long time.”  


Dean didn’t know what to say so he didn’t even try. He focused on the tremor in his fingers until it slowed to an occasional twitch.  


“I thought of going to you many times.”  


“Why didn’t you?” Dean asked without accusation. He was too tired for that. Only he could wake up more exhausted than when he’d gone to sleep.  


Cas slumped like the answer weighed almost more than he could carry. “I didn’t know if I would be able to deny you… If you asked for my assistance again.”  


Dean was tempted to ask, What about now? Would Castiel help him free Sam if he asked? But he didn’t.  


Instead, Dean clapped his hands on his knees and stood up abruptly. “Shouldn’t we be getting that last ring?” he asked a little too brightly, a little too loud. “Raphael might have figured out where it was when he was poking around in my melon.”  


Cas nodded slowly but Dean didn’t miss the way the angel avoided his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s official. We’re well past the halfway mark on this little carnival ride. Hope you’re enjoying it. I had hoped I could wrap this up around 7 chapters. It would have been oh so clever of me since 7 is a holy number. Yeah, I actually thought of that. Oh well.  
> We have a few chapters left to go before Dean’s little adventure is over. Let me know what you think in the meantime. Thank you kindly for reading this far. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Dean had only made a handful of visits to his mother’s grave over the years. Probably less. It wasn’t easy at the best of times but dropping out of thin air and landing at the cemetery gates didn’t help matters any. As he staggered, still disoriented from flying Angel Airways, Cas stood silently waiting. His gaze narrowed.  


“Give me some warning next time,” Dean said, rubbing the ache in his temples.  


“My apologies.”  


Dean bent over, hands on his knees, and glared at the angel. He knew insincerity when he heard it.  


Castiel ignored him, eyes stretching over the still green expanse of the cemetery. “I should retrieve the ring alone.”  


“Like hell you will.” Dean stepped in front of him before he could zip away. Not that he couldn’t just go around him… “You don’t even know where it is.”  


Cas had already proved that his angel mojo could home in on the rings if he got close enough but Dean wasn’t about to let the angel finish the job without him. He’d started it and, dammit, he was going to finish it.  


“We go together,” Dean insisted, already heading off into the grid of headstones new and old. Some of them bore wilted flowers and trinkets from loved ones. Not far from the gate, they passed a fresh grave littered with army men and toy cars. Dean’s eyes flicked to the dates on the headstone. The boy buried beneath the earth there had only been eight. Younger than Ben. Dean hesitated before he stepped carefully around the fresh turned earth. Behind him, Cas watched without comment. He’d noted the tilt of Dean’s head and the sudden stiffening of his spine as he walked on.  


The other rings jangled in Dean’s pocket, trying to come together in the confined space but unable because the set was incomplete. Pretty funny really. Only part of a whole. Just like Dean.  


No chirping birds broke the early morning stillness as they walked. It was downright eerie, something Dean should have been used to. Eerie was his whole life. He ran towards the bumps in the night and the monsters under the bed. He sought them out. Or at least he used to. He smiled ruefully and drew up short, attention captured by the granite headstone only a few steps ahead of them.  


He hadn’t expected to be so disturbed by it. He’d seen the grave before. Hell, he’d been on hands and knees digging in the dirt when he’d buried the ring there only a few months ago. A backwards mockery of his own dig to freedom. But here he was again. Everything always seemed to come back to this same place. His mother’s body wasn’t there. Her soul didn’t linger in the air around him. But it still amounted to the same thing. Everything started with his mother and it seemed to end in the ground.  


“It’s there.” Dean pointed a finger and Cas’s eyes followed.  


Cas gave a curt nod, took a step forward. Then he paused. His head tilted a fraction. “Someone’s coming.”  


Dean searched the grounds but didn’t see a thing. “Care to be a bit more specific?”  


Castiel’s face compressed into a tight look of concentration.  


Dean barely saw the widening of the angel’s eyes before he was shoved face first into the grass. “What the hell, Cas?” he barked, rolling out of the way in time to avoid getting trampled beneath angel feet. Company had arrived in a silent flutter of wings.  


Beside him, Cas and another bookworm looking angel were locked together, blades out. Cas had his sword aimed at the other’s throat, was trying to force it forward that extra inch, teeth gritted. He didn’t even seem to notice the second angel circling his right side.  


“Cas, look out!” Dean was on his feet and moving as the words left his throat. Repossessed angel sword tight in one fist, Dean advanced on the second angel. She disappeared like a ghost, winking out of existence in one spot and reappearing a few steps to the side. She smirked.  


Cas’s struggle with the bookworm ended in a violent flare up. Dean turned in time to see the bookworm drop to the ground, stabbed through the neck with a look of terminal surprise on his borrowed face. Cas straightened, adjusting his grip on the sword in his hand. He barely glanced at Dean before shifting his attention to the other angel.  


Dean might have been relieved if a third angel hadn’t decided to crash the party a moment later. He appeared out of nowhere, standing squarely on Mary’s grave. Dean and Cas spotted him at the same time. He was dressed in well worn jeans and a v-neck argyle sweater with an equally nerdy button down layered beneath. Dean stood for a moment, unsure of what he was seeing. It was only the second vessel Dean had ever seen without the customary suit. But the guy hadn’t been there a moment before and there was a certain intensity to his eyes that Dean had come to expect from the angelic assholes.  


Cas was not confused in the least. He moved to attack but not quite quick enough. V-neck Sweater punched down with one hand, straight into Mary’s grave. His fist split the earth as if it were water and pulled back, shaking the loose soil from his sleeve. Enclosed in his hand was the makeshift bag holding Pestilence’s ring.  


“What have we here?” V-neck held up the little bag triumphantly.  


Cas took another careful step forward but the female angel blocked their path, her sword out and shining in the orange glow of sunrise. “Give us the other rings,” she said, tossing a stray wisp of brown hair from her face. The rest was coiled tightly at the back of her head. Her deep brown pantsuit really cemented the holy librarian look.  


“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dean said, sliding sideways, hoping to distract her from Cas’s approach.  


It didn’t work.  


She only had eyes for Cas, totally disregarding Dean. He was a little offended, couldn’t resist snapping his fingers at her. “Hey. Over here. He doesn’t have what you’re looking for.”  


“Dean.” Castiel’s voice was sharp.  


Dean gave a quick jerk of his head in V-neck’s direction and took another step to the side.  


“Give me the rings, human.” The holy librarian raised her blade just a little higher, obviously aiming for intimidation and his jugular while she was at it. Her eyes slid over his body and, if it wouldn’t have given him away, Dean would have put a hand over the rings still sleeping in his pocket. Maybe he should have let Cas carry them after all.  


“You didn’t even say please.”  


The words had barely left his lips when she disappeared again. Dean knew the moment the rings were gone, torn from his pocket with angelic speed. Her blade grazed his chest but there was no time to defend himself. He was already falling backwards, yanked to the ground for the second time. Then Castiel was in front of him. He knocked the holy librarian back with an open palm to the chest. She stumbled, catching herself almost immediately. It happened so fast that Dean’s head spun.  


He scrambled back to his feet, dizzy from trying to track angel speed that he couldn’t hope to match. He clung to the blade in his hand anyway. It was the most he could do as the holy librarian circled around them again, still standing between them and V-neck.  


“We have what we came for,” she said. Dean didn’t need to see the rings in her fist to know that she had them. She looked pointedly at Castiel. “You’ve failed.”  


Cas growled, low and dangerous, in the back of his throat. If they hadn’t been on the same side, Dean might have been scared of the look Cas turned on him. As it was, it still tore a little gasp of surprise from him when he met Cas’s hard blue gaze. His intention was clear. Dean tripped backwards trying to get out of range of the hand stretching towards him. Not fast enough. Cas pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead and the world spun like a merry-go-round on acid.  


Dean stumbled, trying to catch himself on a tombstone that wasn’t there anymore. He looked around with blurred eyes.  


Cas had dropped him on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. If he hadn’t been there just the day before, Dean might not have recognized the stretch of dry grass and gravel shoulder. He’d been dumped outside of Pontiac again. If he started walking now, he could get back to his grave before the sun made it all the way into the sky. Assuming he wanted to, which he didn’t.  


Dean tossed his head back and screamed at the candy colored sky. “Cas! Dammit, Cas!” He knew damn well why Cas had zapped him out of there. He was a liability. It stung but there was no denying it. He’d nearly gotten himself killed all over again. And he’d lost the rings. “Son of a bitch!”  


Maybe it was reckless, downright stupid, to go into a fight he knew he couldn’t win. A part of him understood that. But a larger, darker part didn’t fucking care. It was his fight. He’d earned it.  


A tiny voice that sounded suspiciously like Sam reminded him that he’d promised to live a normal apple pie life. Normal people drink beer and watch football on Sundays. They don’t fight angels. Getting yourself killed will not bring your brother back, commented a second matter-of-fact voice. Dean told it to shut its pie hole. He wasn’t talking to that voice right now. Dick.  


Dean turned in a circle on the side of the road, unable to stop the rumble coming from deep in his throat. Frustrated. Angry. But he wouldn’t call Cas again. The angel knew where he’d dropped Dean. He had to.  


He hurled the angel sword at the ground. It speared the grass like a silver javelin, sticking at an angle but refusing to fall over. Dean walked after it, muttering to himself, fists clenched, and headed towards town. He wasn’t about the to stand around waiting in the middle of nowhere, hoping that Cas remembered to come save him. Hoping that Cas survived to come save him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Chuck, Dean has a lot of issues to work through. I tried really hard not to make this chapter a cliffhanger. I swear I did. But Dean continues to defy me. Defy. Defy. Defy.

Dean followed the highway back into Pontiac proper, made it as far as the driver’s seat of his truck, before he realized what he was doing. It was a couple hours drive back to the cemetery. And, hell, who knew if the angel squad was still there. Maybe angels did some kind of crazy ninja shit, bouncing across the globe, while they fought, with crazy acrobatics and running on top of bamboo stalks. He had no idea.  


So he sat, trying to strangle the steering wheel and failing miserably.  


Finally, Dean slid from the truck, slamming the door harder than he ever would have on the Impala. If he couldn’t fight then, dammit, he was gonna drink. At least he could do that without screwing it up. Because there was no way he was gonna sit in the motel parking lot and pine, waiting for Castiel to show his feathery ass. The bastard could wait and wonder where Dean was for a change.  


Yeah.  


He liked that idea.

*******

Dean kicked his feet out in front of him, leaning back on the stool and surveying the nearly empty bar. It was a little early to be drinking, even for him, but he’d made a plan and he intended to stick to it. A glass of whiskey sat on the bar beside him, the second he’d ordered. The first made a comfortable warmth in the pit of his stomach, soothing the edge of his anger. When he realized it, he kicked at the embers, bringing it back to a blaze.  


He was pissed.  


He had every right to be pissed.  


Hell, it was practically mandatory that he be pissed. Required by law or some shit.  


It only made it better, or maybe worse, that Cas had been trying to protect him. Like Dean needed protecting. He’d already died a couple dozen times. What would one more hurt?  


He nodded at his own logic as he drained his glass.  


The bartender slid over and nodded to the empty glass in front of Dean. “Another?”  


Dean gave him a quick glance. The guy looked solid with a gut that hung over his belt buckle and tattoos ringing both forearms. Maybe it was the guy’s almost smile – so like the one that Cas used to wear – that had Dean asking, “You think it’s wrong to lie?” He hadn’t drunk nearly enough to be having this conversation but he couldn’t stop the words coming out. “Cause I promised someone – a couple someones – that I was gonna go back to Lisa when I was done.” He watched as the bartender poured his third whiskey. “But now I’m thinking it might be better if I just… don’t. Hit the self destruct button now when I’m out of the way and she doesn’t have to watch. Plenty of things out there want to kill me. Shouldn’t be hard to find one to do the job.”  


The bartender looked up through raised eyebrows and almost poured whiskey all over the bar. “What’s that?”  


Dean leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I spent a week checking all the neighbors, saying ‘Christo’ behind their backs. Lisa looked at me like I was fucking nuts when she found out.” He thought about it for a minute. “Maybe I am. Ya think?”  


The guy put the bottle down beside him and gave Dean a hard stare. “I think maybe you need some professional help, man. No offense,” he finished quickly.  


“Tried it once. Me ‘n Sammy.” Dean laughed. “Nurse tried to kill us. Then again she was a monster.” He picked up his refilled glass and put it down again without taking a drink. “I’ve seen things that’d make your toes curl.”  


“I see,” was all the bartender said before he went back to work. At the other end of the bar.  


“It’s not that I don’t want to be Joe Normal,” Dean said, talking to himself in a low voice.  


There was a part of him that liked it all – the backyard barbecues, building sheds, and staying in one place long enough to make plans. Lisa liked that part. That part belonged in her house. But Dean didn’t know if that part was big enough to survive, if it could keep from being smothered beneath the years of training and looking over his shoulder and the guilt over Sam. Sam who wanted nothing more than to be a lawyer and live the American Dream life that Dean was trying and failing at. Dean had fucked it up for him. He’d fucked it up for both of them.  


He rubbed a hand over his jaw and tried to distract himself with people watching. All five of them.  


Slowly, more people wandered in, drinking, and laughing, and losing at pool. Dean could’ve taken them all. If he’d a mind to, he could have walked out of that place a rich man. But he didn’t. He sat and watched some college kids fiddle with pool cues, girlfriends giggling as they tried and failed to get the balls in the pockets. They looked out of place, too clean cut, too happy. He studied the guys with their pre-ripped jeans and the girls wearing heels and flirting with carefully lined eyes. He could have snapped their necks before they had a chance to scream, taken them down, taken them apart with precision. But they weren’t monsters. They were innocent.  


He wondered what that was like. Not watching the night for incoming monsters, not packing shotgun shells with salt, and field stripping his gun blindfolded so he could do it in the dark. Just in case.  


Just… living. He’d never really done it.  


Dean wondered what that must feel like.  


Peaceful probably.  


And good.  


He bet it felt real good.  


Safe.  


Maybe in another life. A brand new one because it sure as hell wasn’t gonna happen in this life. No matter how much he wanted it. No matter how much he thought he might have earned it. He was still a hunter and that didn’t seem likely to change.  


His eyes followed the click clacking balls on the table. These kids couldn’t sink one unless it was an accident but they were still laughing and smiling as if it were the best game in the world. Dean wondered if Sam had been like that when he’d been playing the college boy. Had his smile been so easy and relaxed?  


After running through two rounds of beer and one nearly endless game of pool, they left. Dean felt a little sad to see them go. He’d been so busy watching their game that he’d even forgotten his whiskey. It sat beside him, a silent companion. He picked up the glass, giving the contents a swirl. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his taste for it.  


Beside him a man and woman bellied up to the bar, leaning close together and whispering while they waited for their beers. Dean cast them a quick glance. The guy looked like a douchebag in a brand new black leather jacket. Once upon a time, the chick would’ve definitely been Dean’s type. She leaned into his space as she laughed, smelling like flowers. The eyes that met his were a deep chocolaty brown, almost as dark as Lisa’s. Dean couldn’t quite resist the urge to give her a once over as she retreated, drink in hand. A deep red halter top showed off her not inconsiderable assets until she disappeared into a booth with the guy. Dean turned back to the bar. He hadn’t been the only one to notice  


Night had settled outside while he’d been watching the parade of drinkers and pool players. He glanced out the windows as his stomach groaned. He hadn’t eaten a thing since the day before. Dean flagged down the bartender, who shot him a wary look before coming over, and ordered a burger that, according to the sign outside, was the best in town. Of course every bar claimed their food was the best but Dean was unlikely to argue. When it came, he took an enormous bite, juice running straight down to his wrist. Sam would’ve called it grease. Dean just called it delicious, licking the orange trail from the side of his hand, and pushing back from the bar with a contented sigh when he’d finished.  


Hours had passed since he was booted out of the showdown at the cemetery and curiosity started to get the better of him. He was tempted to shoot Cas a phone call, wondered if the angel even had a phone still. Had it exploded with him? Had God fixed Cas’s cell phone when he did everything else up?  


Dean chuckled to himself. He was so far from normal it wasn’t even funny.  


Well.  


Maybe it was a little funny.  


Dean stared into his unfinished whiskey as if it could make the final decision for him.  


He shot another furtive glance around the dimly lit bar. The woman and her douchey date had disappeared and the bartender was eyeing him like he expected Dean to try and rob the place. He was done anyway. Time to head back to the motel. Cas better be there too or Dean would kick his ass. Somehow. He would find a way.  


Dean slid off the barstool, nodding to the bartender, and dropping an extra few dollars tip to make up for all the crazy talk.  


Outside the air was colder than Dean remembered. He loped back in the direction of the motel, taking his time. He didn’t get more than half a block before he heard the screaming.  


His hand flew to his waistband, checking for weapons. He’d stashed the angel blade earlier – the thing was way too awkward to carry around – but he still had the knife. Not that a lack of weapons had ever stopped him from running towards the shrill sound of a woman screaming her head off.  


He found them between a dry cleaner’s and an empty store front, half hidden in the tiny alley the buildings had created. The screamer was the brown eyed woman from the bar. Dean recognized her immediately despite the tousled hair covering her face. The guy in the leather jacket had her pressed back against the wall and, judging by the way she was clawing at him, she wasn’t too happy to be there. That was all Dean needed to see.  


Dean tapped the guy on the shoulder, barely waiting for him to turn before he hit him with a quick jab and a right cross. Another blow to the face spun the guy out like a top. He landed in a heap on the pavement, barely missing the toe of Dean’s boot.  


The whole time, the woman stayed against the wall, panting as if she’d just run a marathon. Her halter top only served to emphasize the movement and Dean wasn’t quite fast enough to stop his eyes from checking out what she had on display. Again.  


“Are you okay?” Dean asked, hoisting his eyes away from her assets and focusing on her face. She was definitely looking a little pale.  


“I’m perfect.” She pressed a hand to her chest and a thin, crooked smile stretched her lips. “Dean Winchester. My hero.”  


Dean drew back, halfway through excusing himself when he stopped. “What did you say?”  


She leaned forward. Her brown eyes sparkled before they clouded over to full white. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re a hard man to reach.”  


“Who are you?”  


Dean stared into the marble white depths of the demon’s eyes, looking for something recognizable in them. He frowned. No matter. He’d figure it out later.  


He lunged forward, drawing his knife as he slammed the woman back against the wall, forearm pressed to her throat. She just laughed.  


“Where’s your angel bodyguard? Poor baby. Did he ditch you, too?”  


Dean tightened his grip on the knife, ready to plunge it hilt deep into her chest, when he heard the rustle of movement behind him. Of course the douche in the leather jacket had been a demon too. Dean groaned. A second later, the guy had him by the arms, yanking him backwards so roughly that Dean’s feet left the ground.  


“Get off me.” He struggled, trying to get the knife into position to do some damage. He swore under his breath. Some day he’d learn not to talk to the demons before he killed them.  


“Good night, Dean.” The woman swung one manicured fist and flipped out the lights.


End file.
